Calling All Remaining Passengers...

We are at Mumbai Airport about to board a 9 hour plane ride home. Oh my. That last 'Slice' (sugar masquerading as as a mango drink - which the monsters are now totally re-addicted to) is now looking like a very bad idea. Dumpie is trying to dive bomb my handbag which he knows is stuffed with 'plane treats' and Egg is still pouting about having been shamed into spending 40 of his precious rupees on an airport ice cream cone for he and his brother.

Meanwhile The Fat Baby sleeps. This is not good. I mean it is, but there is no way he is now going to sleep a wink on the plane. The other thing there is no way he is going to do is fit in the bloody bassinet - even if I could squish him in there. On the way over we had to fold his legs into a yoga position (cross legged) and he's even bigger than he was three weeks ago.

All this and on three hours sleep last night. Rock and roll. Wish me luck.

Alls Well That Ends In Chocolate

Woke this morning to the sound of breaking breaking glass...on my head! Yep, the baby had obviously grown tired of sticking his little fingers up my nose and in my ears, and his usual foolproof method of punching and pulling my hair hadn't managed to rouse me from my delicious dream, so my 11 month old grabbed a nearby glass and smashed it over my head. That worked. I woke up screaming and cursing.

I'm pleased to report though that the day got progressively better: aloo parathas, lime pickle and curd for brekkie, followed by swimming in the sea with the monsters in the afternoon then an almost two hour 'porno-massage' which saw me begging the masseuse for one last session before we leave in a week.

Yet another lovely dinner on the beach was marred only by dumps taking up with another little boy (older, a hustler) and haranguing people on the beach for money in return for jokes, riddles and mind games. Oh the shame. He made 30 rupees though and is mildly pissed off that the takings weren't divided fairly down the middle - esp as dumps was used as bait to soften the marks up:)

Anyway a day that ends with the sound of waves in our ears and a still warm homemade brownie propped up next to us is no bad thing.

Sexy Swollen Stump Seeks Solace

Upon awaking this morning and feeling the brush of cotton over my left leg I let out a yelp. First it was the initial pain of fabric rubbing against a painful skin wound - then it was the horror that overnight my formerly svelte toe-ringed calf had been switched with that of an injured quadruple-bosomed old Greek lady or some such.

Very disconcerting.


And don't even get me started on what it's like to sleep three on a bed (in what is an Indian 'double' - roughly the size of a spoiled American teenagers 'single').

Somehow we neglected to remember to pack a portable sleeping solution for 'The Fat Baby' (as he's affectionately referred to these days). Turns out we also neglected to pack enough baby snacks and food too. But astonishingly we remembered to pack all manner of computer and gadget-related hardware and masses of accompanying plugs and adapters. Go figure. (Hey we may be suffering somewhat but darn it we will have a digital memory of it all and musical accompaniment no less...)

Anyway, the husband is off to his second rabies shot at the hospital and then on to a beach in north Goa to meet a friend.

The Fat Baby and I have a day to fill. Think I may as well concede defeat, go buy a canister of his beloved sour cream and onion Pringles and find a shady hammock somewhere where I can nurse my fetid leg in private.

Only eight hours and eleven minutes until happy hour.

"Hardcore Holiday?...or Paradise (Re)Visited?!"

Paradise and plentiful grub...

We’re currently smack-dab-in-the-middle of a much longed for three week trip to Goa, India.

Are we having fun?  You better believe it.  Is this holiday without its trials and tribulations?  Heck no.

For one, the husband was bitten a few days ago by a potentially rabid dog who had the unfortunate inclination to chase his light purple Enfield down a village road whilst he was ferrying our eldest son Egg.  By managing NOT to run the thing over the husband was rewarded by four canine shaped souvenirs in his right leg and a surprise trip to the local hospital for tetanus and rabies shots.

Rabies or just a bloody mess?

Not wanting to feel left out, yesterday whilst saddled with a 12 kilo+ baby tied to my front and a gadget and book heavy backpack slung over my already overburdened shoulders (and shamefully, decked out in a pair of bloody useless silver sequinned FitFlops – which Auntie Ba has scolded me for even owning – but probably for different reasons) I took a rather nasty tumble on a little sharp stoned pathway to the beach.  One minute I was gazing at the too beautiful to be real backdrop of sea and giant rocks, and the next I was doubled over in pain with a cut up left leg and a potentially sprained left foot.  Nice.  There was only one thing for it:  “a large Kingfisher and two glasses thank you very much sir.”

Of course as I pointed out to the husband, if called upon, we would make a most excellent team in a three-legged race.  (Either that or comedy fodder for diners watching us hobble down the beach at sunset for dinner – each sporty a gammy leg.)

The little guy is getting into the whole beach bum look....

Thanks to shoddy electrics and ‘do-it-yourself’ wiring, the husband also managed to give himself not one but two killer 220 voltage shocks this morning, trying to repair the broken fairy lights strung across the boys room.  I winced in sympathy having done the same thing myself a few days ago.  Will we never learn?

Being here with the baby has been an interesting learning curve in holiday expectation vs. cold hard truth.  For example, save the hour in the morning and afternoon when the baby slumbers, he is ‘on’ full-time.  Infused with seemingly endless energy and enthusiasm for the Indian subcontinent, he delights in putting absolutely everything in his mouth at the moment – be it a pepper shaker in the shape of a die, the nozzle of the 50 factor sun spray or a shiny 2 Rupee coin that has likely been anywhere and everywhere .

While the rest of us are eating like pigs and gorging on the rich delicious dals, channa’s  and kadai veg dishes mopped up with garlic cheese naan bread and washed down with fresh lemon soda’s and not-quite-ice-cold Kingfishers, the big fat baby is becoming…well, less so.  He’s decided that he no longer deems himself infantile enough to be fed baby porridge or anything mushy for that matter.  Instead, he seems to prefer omelettes and pancakes these days – and inexplicably, sour cream and onion crisps.

In the ten days we have been here I have been in the gorgeous Arabian Sea just once, and have sunbathed exactly 0 times.  Instead I have had hot Indian Chai knocked over on my leg, been smeared with dairy cream all over my clean new sarong, had my hair pulled out in clumps by sticky honey coated fingers, and have had my bikini top covered in vomit.

I am officially one of ‘those women’ now, who stare wistfully at the twenty-something year olds who, like show ponies, stroll up and down the beach in slinky bikini’s, aviators and glance at us bedraggled and kiddie-bound types with a combination of horror and relief.
When I ran into an old friend for the first time - the local girl who runs her own little beauty shop and does the best waxing in the world…EVER, she looked at me, clocked the baby, the unwashed and un-brushed hair, and the food-smeared t-shirt and smiled sadly.  “You are looking very different” she said motioning to the face.  “Yeah…no sleep for a year and a very fat and energetic baby will do this to you” I answered drolly – both of us trying to crack a smile but neither of us finding it particularly funny.

Room with a view...

Ah well.  At least I’m on holiday, in the sun, and can hear the crash of waves from our bedroom.  There’s much to be said for that.

And don’t even get me started on the ‘porno-massages’ the husband and I have accidentally on purpose had.  That’s another story for another day.